Between Sheets
by glassamilk
Summary: Six days out of the week, they are too busy to be at home, but on Sundays, they lie in bed together. Denmark/Sweden.


Six days out of the week, they are too busy to be at home, but on Sundays, they lie in bed together.

One is never awake when the other slips into bed on Saturday night, but they wake up together, usually around the same time, with the curtains drawn shut, trying to avoid the tiny sliver of golden sunlight that they can never entirely block out. Sometimes, they share a pillow. Mostly, they do not, though, because Denmark does not sleep, Denmark _nests_, and if Sweden does not have his own pillow, he won't have one at all. The covers are rarely shared either—they can never agree on how many are necessary. Sweden's feet get cold. Denmark is a furnace that drinks too much. Sweden likes feather comforters. Denmark likes flannel.

Neither of them sets an alarm for Sunday morning, though.

Sweden, most of the time, is awake first, but not by more than a few minutes. It's in those few minutes that he can appreciate how silent the house is and how comfortable he is in those precious seconds before he opens his eyes to what will inevitably be Denmark drooling against his shoulder or their cats sensing that someone is conscious and start clawing through the blankets, demanding breakfast. (He prides himself on the fact that his cat is better about this than Denmark's. Denmark's cat is the most obnoxious hairball he's ever had to live with other than its owner.)

If there is enough light, he will sometimes turn Denmark over onto his back, halting his low snores, and just look at him until he wakes up. Somehow, Denmark's face never changes, even when he sleeps; he always has the same ridiculous grin on, just below the perpetually sarcastic slant of his eyebrows. He mumbles throughout the whole night, sleep not even enough to get him to be quiet. He huffs, he squeaks, he clings, he kicks, he does every obnoxious thing a person could possibly do while asleep.

But still.

He's kind of cute when he has his face buried in Sweden's armpit.

On the last Sunday of January, an unusual event occurs: Denmark wakes up before he does.

Sweden is tugged from the depths of his dreams by a tingling sensation in his fingertips. It takes his brain a moment to register it—he isn't sure if it's real or not until the feeling spreads to his knuckles, accompanied by a very, very gentle pressure. He hesitates, letting himself linger on the bridge between sleep and awareness, too comfortable to _want_ to be up just yet, but curious enough to crack his eyes open. He blinks, groggy, still not all there, but manages to register that the room is still dark and the cats are still asleep, wedged in the crack of space between his and Denmark's legs. He's bitter for half a second; the cats are still curled all over each other and sound asleep. Unfair.

Slowly, he turns his face out of the pillow and exhales though his nose. His fingers twitch—the tingling has turned into small circles in his palm. It takes him a moment to realize that the source of the odd feeling is coming from Denmark.

"Den," he murmurs. "What're y'doin'?"

From somewhere in the bleary darkness under the covers, Denmark makes a tired, non-committal sound. "M'awake."

"Can tell." There is a shifting in the sheets and warmth envelopes his hand as it slides in between both of Denmark's. "Asked what yer doin'."

"Playin' with your hands." The tip of his thumb presses down on the top of Sweden's wrist and slips down in a long line, straight to the tip of his index finger. "Didn't wake ya, did I?"

Sweden does his best to suppress the crop of goosebumps that shoot up his arms in the wake of Denmark's careful touches. "Y'did." He breathes in slowly and Denmark turns his hand over, fingertips ghosting over the rough pads of his palm. "S'alright."

"Didn't say I was sorry."

"Implied it."

"Did not." His fingernails scrape over his forearm and Sweden shivers.

"What time s'it?"

Denmark yawns and his hands stall, shifting himself forward to wrap around the entirety of Sweden's arm. "Early." He winds their fingers together and lays his head out on Sweden's chest, chin poking his collarbone.

"How early?"

"Too fucking early." He yawns again and Sweden can feel his eyelashes pat against his neck. "T'be awake anyway."

Sweden rolls over, ignoring Denmark's half-hearted protest, and drops an arm over his waist, tucking his face into the other man's hair. "Should go back t'sleep," he mumbles. "Nowhere t'be t'day."

Denmark hums in agreement and from between them, the cats begin to stir. Denmark's cat pushes himself up, arching in a stretch, and pads across the bed, bumping his head against Denmark's ear and sitting expectantly on Sweden's chest. Denmark groans and turns his head. "Oh, m'so sorry," he grumbles sarcastically and drops a heavy palm to stroke the cat's head. "Did we disturb you?"

The cat makes a noise that is somewhere between a gurgle and chirp and forces himself between their heads, plopping down and balling up again, flapping the endless tuft of fur that is his tail against Sweden's face.

Sweden mentally congratulates his cat on being the more mature animal.

Still, when Denmark's cat begins to purr, Sweden can't help himself, and reaches out to join Denmark in petting him. "G'nna have t'feed 'em soon."

Denmark groans and his face disappears in his cat's fur. "S'your turn. I did it yesterday."

Sweden sighs. "Cat's lyin' on me. Can't get up now."

"That's playin' dirty, Sve." He yawns in perfect unison with the cat. "'Sides, your cat's on my legs. I can't get up either." He resettles himself and sighs, slow and even. "Guess we're trapped," he slurs.

Sweden squints as the first rays of morning begin to filter through the crack in the curtains and splays his fingers out on Denmark's back, letting his head sink back into the covers.

"Guess so."

* * *

**Suggested listening**: Imogen Heap - Between Sheets


End file.
